


Christmas

by eyebrowofdoom



Series: Fucking Normal People [2]
Category: Cruel Intentions
Genre: Blackmail, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-03
Updated: 2005-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/pseuds/eyebrowofdoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the blackmailing of Greg McConnell goes partly awry, an annoyed Sebastian confronts Blaine Tuttle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> CI 2 was an unpleasant hallucination caused by some funky gear probably supplied by an unscrupulous Blaine, and none of its back story holds.
> 
> This is my fanfiction juvenilia (circa 2002), partaking of an entirely appropriate spirit of smoking behind the shelter shed.

“So what you’re trying to tell me is, you’re completely full of shit,” Sebastian says. He stalks back from the bedroom door, coat tails sailing.

I haven’t tried to tell Sebastian anything. In fact, I haven’t said a word since Greg stumbled away down my stairs with his clothes in his arms. I’ve dropped the pretence of filing my nails, lying here naked on the bed, but that’s it.

Sebastian stops clean at the centre of the foot of the bed. “He can’t write out a shopping list, but he can assassinate my character persuasively and compellingly, in writing, to an intelligent audience.”

His voice is crisp as clean blotting paper; the vowels strike like type.

“ _You_ thought it made sense,” I say.

“I wasn’t in anything like the position you were to know,” he retorts, hands to his hips.

I shrug and roll my eyes to the ceiling. The sweet little faggot lisp it is, then. “You’re so scary when you’re angry!”

“Oh, I think you can do better than that,” he says. “At least, you’d better.”

And wouldn’t he do a lovely Saint Michael with apocalyptic sword, just like this? The single flaring nostril to signify the wrath upon the world. Naked with white wings.

And I shouldn’t still have a hard-on, after all the shouting.

“Look,” I say. “That there was a _nice_ piece of ass. And I think I may have, kind of, blown it for the time being.”

“Do you think?” he says, and stalks away across the room again.

“There’s no need to sound so amused,” I say.

“Au contraire,” he says. He’s touching that glass bong again.

“But do you see what I mean here?” I fold my arms.

He turns back, one hand on a hip, and waits.

“It was a nice piece of ass of my making, you know,” I say.

I get an eyebrow for that one. “How so?”

“Do you know how much work it is to teach a big dumbass like that how to be worth the trouble with his pants down?” I ask. “The bitching, the moaning I had to do?”

“‘Greg, let go of my ears. Good boy!’”

“‘Greg, lube is our friend. No, you don’t have to look at the nasty pictures of nasty nasty men on the label. Just close your eyes or something when you squeeze it out.’”

“‘Greg, if you’re going to stick your cock in my ass, giving me a little kiss and a cuddle first is not the part that makes you a fag.’”

Sebastian’s sweet little boy dimples rise like the sun, and yes, I’ve almost made him laugh.

“And now I’ve ruined that, all for you,” I say.

“My heart bleeds, darling,” he says heavily.

Then, with a sudden purposefulness, he returns to the bed. He sits beside me and puts a hand on my thigh.

His hand is still a little cool from the night air, for all his exertion since. I open my mouth, then close it.

“Don’t do that when I have a hard-on.” I try to keep my tone light.

Now Sebastian turns his head carefully to look at the disruption in the fall of the shirt I threw across my hips when he pulled the covers off. He looks up to see me watching him looking, and meets my eye.

“Do what?” he says.

His hand is still, still on my thigh. “All I’m saying is,” I say quickly, “I didn’t do as well out of this as you may think. Now be a nice man, and leave me alone to jerk off in my empty bed.”

He’s perfectly still.

I throw my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling. “Don’t be an asshole, Valmont.”

“Who said anything about assholes?” He starts to stroke my thigh with the back of his knuckles. And then, with a voice like a kid at Christmas, he says, “Oh, wait!”

“Get lost!” I say, hard.

There’s a sharp intake of air, and that’s his theatrical wounded face. But then the sets change fast and the kid at Christmas is back. Apparently we’re unwrapping the presents, because off comes my draped shirt, and away it flutters.

“What do we have here?” he squeaks, like Santa’s fucking elf.

Up goes the flag to solid three-quarter-mast, and we’re both at attention.

Helpless, I address my cock. “I told you to stay under the house until the bad man was gone!”

“Aw, hasn’t Daddy been feeding you?” Sebastian says. And he tickles my cock with his finger, like you might under the chin of a child.

Oh, and up I come, all the way up. Turgid as a hose on full bore.

“You’re an asshole, Valmont!” I throw my head back on the pillow.

“You screwed me over…” he sing-songs.

My mouth wants to open and say “I didn’t,” but it doesn’t. Somehow, somehow, he hasn’t made his point yet. He keeps tickling.

“Sebastian,” I manage to get out, some time later.

He leans over me, looks right in my eyes.

“Yes, Blaine?”

“I imagine the plan is to make me beg till I cry, then laugh at me, then leave.”

His dimples appear. His finger continues on its merry way, without missing a beat.

My ribcage heaves. “Well, anything I can do to help…” I catch my breath again, and stare hard at him. “Cause I gotta tell you, I’m ready to skip straight to the crying, you just tell me when.”

Oh, he likes that. There are crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“That’s a tempting offer. You know, this is so much more fun than I could ever have imagined.”

And I’m pumping all my decimated attention into processing the idea that he’s imagined this before, when I get my reward. Two fingers now. Just trailing up and down the goddamn underside.

It goes on.

“Valmont!” I say.

“Hmm?”

“Begging. Is that what you want? You want me to beg?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

His fingers make their way all the way up, and all the way down again.

“You wouldn’t say no to begging, or to what it is I’m likely to beg for?” I say.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?”

His fingertips linger just under the rim, walking on the spot.

“Any kind of head I can get,” I say.

The thing he does with his eyelashes and the bridge of his nose — it begins to bloom across his face, and he has to still himself to do it, and that’s my chance. I sit up and grab him by the upper arms. “Are you going to fuck me, or am I going to tie you down and hurt you _really_ good?”

He blinks. “Alright, alright, don’t get so huffy,” he says — he says it slowly, totally dead-pan, almost without tone.

And I stare at him, because I don’t know what to do. And then he smiles. Like the sun coming out.

And kisses me. Softly, on the lips.

“No way!” I’m scooting right up the bed, until my back is against the headboard.

“Why not?” he demands, the humour back in his voice.

“If you’re telling me you don’t want to…” His gazes dips. “I don’t think I’m going to believe you.”

“What the hell do you want?” I say.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he says. “You screw me, I screw you. You know how it goes.”

I look at him in silence for a humiliatingly long time.

“Alright,” I say. “I believe you.” This has to be the way to make him stop. I get to my knees and shuffle back towards him. His hips wobble and tilt into the valley in the mattress that my knees make. I start to unbutton his shirt.

Three buttons, four, I’ve undone, and he hasn’t stopped me. That’s his stomach my knuckles are brushing, abs firm and silky as unripe plums. I undo another and that’s all of them; I pull his shirt-tails untucked and push the sides of his shirt apart. I run my open hand across his belly. His face is too close to focus on, but his chin is tucked down, as if he’s watching my hand.

I take his hand from where it’s lying on his thigh, and move it to my cock. He has to stop me now.

His fingers curl around my cock. “Bizarre,” he says mildly. He looks at my cock like he might an exotic bird at the zoo.

His hand starts to move. I bite my lip; bite back a moan. He’s going to take it back, any time now he’s going to take it back.

He watches my chest rise just a little too fast as I inhale, and chuckles. He says softly, “Bizarre isn’t what it is to you, is it?”

“Oh come on, Sebastian,” I breathe. “Don’t tell me the workings of the human penis are some great mystery.”

His hand and my cock make a soft, swishing sound. He’s not taking it back. I reached my hand out and lay it, palm down, on his chest. I start to circle the pad of my thumb around his nipple. His eyes flicker, but he doesn’t object. The nipple puckers.

I look carefully at him. I move my hand down. “You’ve got one too, don’t you?” I say.

“Well observed,” he says.

I unbuckle his belt and push down his fly.

I have his in my hand, all soft, elastic skin, firming and rising to my touch like a cat arching into a stroking hand. Warm balls and the hair beneath them fine and damp.

Then my own cock feels dangerously hot and filled-tight in his hand, and the crook of his thumb is smearing wetness on the head. “No, no no,” I say softly, “no no.”

I tug at his wrists. “Come on! Rubbers in the drawer.”

He smiles like an asshole and goes for the drawer, but I can’t care. My cock is cold without his hand. “Lube,” I say, “yeah? You…”

“I know,” he says, amused. And he already has it, and he’s warming it on his fingers.

I lift my knees. He shuffles between them. His thighs cradle my ass, warm.

And it’s rub, rub, rub against my hole, then he eases his fingers into me, smooth. “Don’t you know?” he says. “There are a lot of Manhattan debutantes who’ll only do this with a _really_ special guy.”

Snap of the rubber as he makes sure the end’s sitting right. Then he’s putting his cock in.

There’s that moment when it feels like the cock is _compacting_ your insides but your insides just can’t give any more, and it’s kind of sick and achy and fuck, fuck… and then the resistance gives, and he’s sliding.

Those are his fucking balls nudging my ass.

He murmurs, as if about to speak, and I say, “Mercy! Mercy, man. Just shut up.”

He subsides, and fucks me. It’s tight and a little painful at first, like it always is. But I’m good and lubed, and the discomfort blends into the beginnings of pleasure from that spot inside.

I guess, beautifully confronting, how very stretched wide you are when somebody puts a cock in you. How your body complains.

I lie back, rock my hips gently and enjoy the view. His pretty rosebud nipples move back and forth. His supple little biceps clench and unclench.

He works me. Slowly, my muscles melt, until I can’t feel the stretching any more. Till it just feels like warm honey.

He makes a sound. Something between an _mmph_ and a vowel sound. It’s unmistakably the cadence of Sebastian’s voice. And it occurs to me that this is Sebastian above me.

I have this flash of him in tennis gear when we were ten, almost photographic quality. The realisation zips out in rays, shooting up my spine, down my legs.

My mouth is open, and someone is saying, “Oh Jesus, harder. Harder.” I’m bucking my hips up to meet him.

And, with a gasp, he rides to meet the new rhythm.

Jesus, he knows what he’s doing, this one. Never with a man before, but still. So practised, fluid.

We’re moving so fast now, his hips slap as they hit my ass. There’s a sharp smell of sweat, a zing of wheat and ferment. His chest, his shoulders are all lovely and shiny as they work above me.

“Fuck,” he says. Breathy, but quiet.

I swear I can’t see. I can tell there’s visual data coming in, but I just… can’t see.

Something comes out of my mouth, and I think it’s “Oh, honey.”

Then I’m nearly bucking him off, trying to get him ever so deep inside. Spurting onto my belly. Grabbing at him.

Right up in my ear, he shushes me. Waits for me to let go of his back, his ass. At last I do.

He starts to ride me again, briskly. Time passes. Though when it has passed, I’m not quite sure where I’ve been.

He stiffens, and with a nice, big, open-mouthed _ah_ , he comes.

Sebastian, coming inside me. Behind my eyelids there is another sudden, bright second of… something. God. Halloween costumes, when we were seven.

He slips out, and lies still on top of me.

And I’m just having a nice time lying there under him, all available limbs wrapped around him, when he says, “Honey?” In a certain, very _Sebastian_ tone of voice. Close to laughing.

“Hey,” I say, “don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Then I think about it some more. And all the limbs are already in place, so it’s really very easy to roll him right over underneath me.

I prop myself up on my elbows and look down at him, hard. He breathes quickly from being flipped so fast. I watch his cogs turn.

“You wish,” he says.

“Asshole,” I say. But not like I mean it.

He trails his fingers across my ass. Trails them closer to the centre, where I’m still wet. “Whose asshole are we talking about?” he says. Sugary-nice as pie.

“Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?”

“I don’t talk to my mother,” he says, without missing a beat.

And even coming from Valmont, I think I’d better leave _that_ one alone.

I drop my head onto the pillow above his shoulder.

After a while, though something tells me not to, I start to rub my forehead on his chest.

“Blaine, who would have thought you were such a faggot?”

We let that one sit for a minute.

I lay my ear on his heart. “No, there’s really nothing in there, is there?”

But I can hear it beating. Regularly, calmly. The tiny vibration tickles the squashed cartilage of my ear.

“You defame me,” he says. I’m listening for some catch in the voice, but there’s not a false note. He continues, “I mean, do you know many old ladies I had to help across the road, how many orphans I had to succour to get where I am today?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” And there’s the catch I’ve been listening for, only it’s in my voice. I shift up his body until I can look him in the eye. Keeping a quirk in the corner of my mouth, I tell him, “I know exactly how few digits are needed to count up your good deeds towards the infirm. Might I suggest, if you want to keep me from releasing this damaging information, you’d best let me suck your dick some time?”

I wait as a smile spreads across his face. “You know, I find it very hard to entirely rule the possibility out,” he says.

He cranes his head up off the pillow, laying his cheek against mine to speak more directly into my ear.

“But you do know, don’t you, that…” He stops part way through. Valmont, lost for words. Leaving his cheek resting against mine. Possibly quite innocently… breathing on my ear.

God, is this kindness? From him? Jesus, it’s awful.

He tries again. “You do know that I haven’t… seen the light? Don’t you?”

I think that little brush was his eyelashes against my cheekbone.

I turn on the nasal voice, the bullshitting-Greg voice. “Of course! Many are called, but few are chosen, after all.”

And I’m up and off him, across the other side of the bed.

“Want a joint?” I say. Because Mother Mary and all the saints in heaven, I need one.

He’s grinning at me like a loon.

Like a particularly evil loon.

It wasn’t kindness. Jesus, let the games begin.


End file.
